


The Ever So Slightly Belabored Seduction Of A Point Man.

by WhisperElmwood



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:45:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are five kisses, too many frowns and some smirks that piss Arthur off very much indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Working on part2 at the moment. This will be 5 parts long, and depending on how it goes, may lead to further fics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now BETA'd by the lovely thedogstarsirius :D

i

Arthur’s just turned twenty-three when he first meets Eames. He’s only been working in Dreamshare for a little over a year; and he’s been working with the Cobb’s for that entire time. Dom had found him a couple months after his honourable discharge from the Marines. Arthur had been well known for his intelligence work, in certain circles, and Cobb had tracked him down, offered him a job. Arthur had taken it without hesitation because the dual hardship of being a civilian for the first time since he was sixteen, and learning to live with his mangled shoulder had been driving him slowly mad.

Anyway, he first meets Eames when the Cobb’s hear about an exceptional Forger and want him in on one of their jobs. They’re only just beginning to dip their toes into the not-exactly-legal side of Dreamsharing, mostly because Mal wants to experiment and the legal constraints are a little _too_ constraining for her, and a little because Dom enjoys the thrill.

Eames turns out to be a twenty-seven year old Englishman with broad shoulders and an accent that sends annoying thrills up Arthur’s spine; thrills he can’t quite ignore, try as he might. By this point, Arthur’s mobility is almost back to normal; he hides the lingering pains and stilted movement well enough that most people don’t even notice anything’s wrong. Not so, Eames.

That’s his first hint that Eames is every bit as good as the rumours say. The man apparently cultivates a roguish appearance and air, with his mismatched apparel, three-day stubble and nicotine stained fingers, but looking past it, Arthur can tell he’s sharp. Probably sharper even, than Arthur suspects.

When they meet, his wound is playing up and Arthur unconsciously favours his right arm and Eames – without pause – avoids it, eyes moving over the slope of his shoulders. It’s only the fact that Eames compensated _for_ him without comment or even outward sign of anything being wrong, that clues Arthur in to his own behaviour. It both annoys and impresses him in equal measure.

When they’re actually in the dream and Eames is showing off his talent, Arthur’s respect notches up several levels without his conscious decision. Eames flickers from form to form to form, male, female, young, old, all races, all heights, body-shapes – including various physical disabilities – until Mal asks him to stop and instead mimic one of them.

Eames – now wearing his own form – shifts quickly to Mal herself, everything from her perfectly coiffed hair to her mischievous smirk perfect; but the movement of her body is a little off. He smiles beatifically, shifting back to his own body as he explains, “I’ve not known you long enough for a perfect Forge yet, love. I need time to get the nuances of expression, body language and vocal tics down.”

Either way, they’re all impressed and Eames is hired on the spot.

Once they’re actually working together, Arthur begins to notice the way Eames flirts; with everyone, outrageously and without a care for gender, relationship status or even sexuality. Their poor Chemist doesn’t know what to do with Eames’ attentions, which just makes Eames pay him more of them; Dom tolerates the flirtation with tight smiles and shakes of his head, Mal flirts back just as outrageously, turning it into a game that they both seem to enjoy.

As far as Arthur can tell, it’s just a quirk, something Eames cultivates – like his sartorial choices and his air of roguishness – another pretence that puts people off, makes them underestimate him. As far as Arthur can tell, Eames enjoys pretending to be the big oafish buffoon that hits on anything with a hole.

However, when that flirtation starts being aimed in his direction, Arthur begins to take a dislike to it. As much as Eames is – frankly – devastatingly handsome and sharp as a tack, and as far as Arthur can tell, _actually_ flirting with him, rather than simply playing, Arthur refuses to muddy up his work relationships with personal ones.

That isn’t to say the attentions of a handsome man aren’t frustrating him beyond all previous frustrations. Just being around Eames sets his hackles rising and he spends energy he doesn’t exactly have making sure to keep his professional attitude in place; the straight face, showing little to no emotion, unless extremely provoked (which really only results in a raised eyebrow), unruffled appearance and when he needs it, the monotonous dead-pan voice.

Eames doesn’t make it easy on him. He starts using pet names. Oh – he does it to everyone, calls them ‘pet’ and ‘love’ and occasionally ‘dear’ – but the ‘darling’ is apparently for Arthur alone, as is ‘duck’ when he appears to be in a particularly good mood. It’s the sudden addition of ‘poppet’ that has Arthur almost tearing his hair out.

The job, does, however, go without a hitch. Arthur’s research and interference as Point, combined with Mal’s impeccable world building sets it up very nicely. Eames Forges as the Mark’s father and creates enough of a distraction-cum-interrogation that Cobb has more than enough time, even leisure, to extract the information their employer wants.

The Cobb’s are making sure the information gets to their employer without a problem, their Chemist scarpered as soon as it looked like a sure thing (Arthur suspects to get away from Eames) so Arthur and Eames are left to clear up the small rented apartment they’d used for the job. Almost everything has been packed away, the PASIV device carefully wrapped and coiled and placed in a second suitcase for extra protection – after all, the people the Cobb’s have borrowed this from aren’t exactly aware of what they’re doing with it, it wouldn’t behove them to bring it back damaged and risk unanswerable questions – when Eames saunters over with that annoyingly playful smirk on his annoyingly pouty, annoyingly kissable lips.

“Arthur, darling.”

Arthur can hear the smile in Eames voice. He stands from latching the PASIV into its extra suitcase and realises Eames is very close. He can smell his cologne, very clearly, though he’s having trouble identifying just what it is; it smells old fashioned, a little spicy.

He realises he’s mentally side-tracked himself when Eames chuckles lightly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Am I truly that distracting, poppet?”

Arthur frowns as Eames brings his left hand up, slowly. The frown deepens a little as Eames’ large, blunt fingers ghost over his shoulder and down his bicep. Eames catches his eyes as he traces Arthur’s arm, “I have wondered…”

Arthur’s frown disappears, he blinks, blank expression falling into place, monotonous voice coming into play. “Shrapnel. Afghanistan. Road-side bomb, I was the lucky one.”

He recounts the bare minimum of facts emotionlessly. He still, even now, eighteen months later, wakes up to the sounds of shrieking metal, screaming, noise and noise and noise and pain, so much pain. He’s learning to live with it.

Eames gives him a look he can’t quite decipher, so he turns away, out of Eames’ personal space, away from the man’s steady hand. He’s already finished packing, so he snatches up his suit-jacket and pulls it on, with the barest hint of strain as he moves his right arm awkwardly to accomplish the act.

Eames doesn’t say anything further until Arthur is once again perfectly poised; his suit free of wrinkles or creases, thick wool over-coat pulled on over it all in what he will always deny is a self-protective gesture.

Eames smiles then, this time a little softer, “Dear Arthur, I wonder if anyone else see’s you’re almost as accomplished as I at being someone else?”

Arthur snorts. Eames is infuriating, with his rakish nature, his stupid clothes and his talent for reading people, especially when they don’t want to be read. “I’m not in the mood to play your games, Mr Eames.”

The soft smile turns a little harder. “Who said it was a game?”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow disdainfully, “Of course it’s a game, Mr Eames. You play it very well, but I’m not interested.”

Eames continues to smile at him, lips parting slightly to reveal the slightly crooked tooth Arthur had noticed. “If you say so, pet.”

And for some reason, it’s the slight dismissal in Eames’ tone that rankles Arthur more than anything else he’s done so far. With a small growl of frustration, mostly under his breath, Arthur steps forward, grabs Eames by the lapel of his awful jacket and pulls him close.

“Mr Eames, you are _infuriating_.”

He kisses him.

Eames’ lips are as soft and full as they look and after a second’s hesitation, they part and he deepens the kiss, plundering Eames’ mouth. It’s a damn good kiss. Eames is as good at this as his lips and his flirting have hinted; if he let himself, Arthur could get lost in this, take it further. He’d probably regret it.

When a large hand settles in the small of his back, a small moan escaping from Eames’ throat, he breaks away, steps back and smooth’s his hands down his own chest, removing the wrinkles that have appeared.

Eames blink’s at him as Arthur grabs his bags and the PASIV case. When he has everything, he pauses, gives Eames a tight smile, “Goodbye, Mr Eames.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now BETA'd by the lovely thedogstarsirius :D

ii.

 

The next time Arthur sees Eames’, he’s working Point for someone other than the Cobb’s. It’s not his first time working elsewhere, but it is his first time working in this business outside the US, so his paranoia and cold outward demeanour are at their most acute.

It’s been six months since he left the Englishman standing in the apartment, looking more than a little flabbergasted. Arthur’s thought about it more than once – and hated himself for it every time - the man’s obviously a rogue, and obviously only after one thing and Arthur really doesn’t think he can deal with that right now. Eames is the type of man Arthur could fall for, and fall hard; but he’s also the type of man who wouldn’t stick around, so Arthur does his best to ignore any and all thoughts of him.

He’s been working in Dreamshare for a little over 18 months now and he’s already built up a reputation for himself. He knows, because he keeps tabs on everyone he meets, everyone they meet and everyone anyone tells him about or just happens to mention. There is, after all, a reason he is beginning to be known as ‘the best’ in their business. He hears the rumours about himself and smiles, satisfied at a job well done.

The only problem with this new job is that they need an exceptional Forger to pull it off, and of all the Forger’s he’s met or heard of, all the Forger’s he’s kept tabs on, only Eames will do. Only Eames has the skill-set to pull off this particular ruse. Annoying, but it can’t be helped. So he’d placed the call, been flirted at over the phone, told the man that under no circumstances was he to flirt with him again or he’d personally take his share and shoot him, and then told him where to meet them. Then he’d hung up, before Eames could actually respond.

After their last meeting, he’d known Eames would show. But he’d kept track of the man’s movements anyway, to make sure.

When Eames finally arrives, Arthur has already bitched out the chemist, the architect and the extractor, all within an hour of their meeting in the abandoned warehouse. There’s just something about them all that gets on his nerves, nerves that are already frayed because he’s in an unfamiliar situation – and the fact that none of these people are as competent as he expected just serves to piss him off further. Serves to remind him why he prefers to work with the Cobb’s.

So, when Eames saunters back into his life again, it’s into an atmosphere broiling with anger, frustration and in the case of the architect, distress.

Eames has barely opened his mouth before Arthur tells him, “I _will_ shoot you, Mr Eames.” He hasn’t even looked up from the painstaking investigation he’s doing at his desk, but he can feel Eames’ gaze, and the messy tread-falls of his feet are sauntering in his direction. In fact, they keep coming until Eames is looking down at him.

The man simply chuckles at him and though Arthur tries not to show it, he tenses further, clenches his teeth.

That pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the job.

They’re in a training session; Arthur is making sure Eames has got the Forge down correctly – to his exacting standards, and because this is a tricky job and he needs to be sure Eames is doing it right, even if he does irrationally trust the man – one layer down on their own, when Eames starts up his flirting again.

He’s moved between the three separate forge’s he needs to enact for the job effortlessly, seamlessly capturing each individuals verbal quirks, expressions and body language after only a week’s time to observe them. He’s proven himself more than adequate; in fact, he’s proven himself perfect, yet again. Despite himself, Arthur is impressed – far more so than he was the last time, the _first_ time, they met.

Eames’ reaction to his reluctantly admitting his admiration, expressing his thanks that Eames is a consummate professional and absolutely the best at his job, however, drains away the good feelings he had been harbouring and replaces them with nothing short of outright annoyance.

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose in an uncharacteristic tell of how supremely annoyed he actually is. It’s strange that, despite his acute annoyance, he still feels able to let his guard slip just a touch in the presence of this man.

“Don’t be like that, duck,” Eames has stepped closer, all charming smile and mischievous glint in his eyes, “Even on a job like this, there’s plenty of time for some fun. Even for you.”

Arthur growls, “Eames, I do not have the time or patience to deal with this.”

Of course, that’s when Eames reaches out and trails his blunt fingers over Arthur’s clenched fist. Arthur’s arm has come a long way since the initial wounding, but still, even now, he is extremely touchy about it; he does not _like_ to be touched at the best of times, he _detests_ anyone acknowledging his slight weakness, especially with a touch, any touch, to the arm and weakness in question when he’s in a bad mood.

Currently, ‘bad mood’ is an understatement.

Perhaps to the shock of them both, Arthur grabs the offending hand and has Eames thrown to the floor in a matter of seconds. The Englishman is winded – even though it’s a dream – and supremely shocked, if his expression is anything to go buy, squashed half against the floor as it is.

Arthur pins him down, twisting the captured arm up his back. “I said, ‘I do not have the time or patience’, Eames. You should learn to listen.”

With a twist, he let’s go of Eames wrist and the man rolls onto his back. Before Arthur can get up and move away, however, Eames kicks his feet out from under him and pins him in turn, using his far more substantial bulk to hold Arthur down.

“Arthur,” he veritably _purrs,_ extending his name, drawing out the r’s.“You need to relax, that stick up your arse might break, and then we’ll be in all _sorts_ of trouble.”

From there it turns into a battle of wills, or supremacy, or just a battle. Either way, Arthur twists and throws Eames, growling as he does; seconds later they’re in a sparring match – punching, kicking, throwing, scrabbling; headlocks, kidney punches, grunting and heaving as they inflict as much damage as possible on each other – all the time Eames is taunting Arthur, laughing and grinning, apparently thoroughly enjoying himself.

Arthur just gets angrier; Eames keeps baiting him and on it goes until Arthur finally pins the large man to the floor again, thighs either side of his broad chest, hands gripping Eames’ wrists above his head in a death-grip that turns his fingers pale and bloodless.

Arthur pulls out a gun, a Glock 17 - finally remembering that this is a dream and he can do that if he wants to – and puts the muzzle to Eames’ temple. They’re both panting, trying to recapture breath they technically never lost, but Eames manages to grin up at him anyway, a touch of leer showing through.

“I told you, darling. You need to relax.”

Arthur snorts, frustrated beyond reason and purely on impulse, he leans down and kisses Eames so hard they lose their breath again. The kiss is all teeth and anger and desperation, but Eames gives back as much as he takes, and it is far too long before Arthur realises what he’s doing.

He pulls away sharply, “Fuck!”

He shoots Eames right between the eyes without further thought.

They don’t mention the kiss, or the fight, but Eames stops flirting with him – and everyone else – for the rest of the job. They pull it off without a hitch and Arthur is the first to leave. He glances at Eames as he passes him, pauses very slightly and nods, then leaves and doesn’t see Eames again for six weeks – at which point he’s given in and allows himself to react to Eames inevitable flirting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now BETA'd by the lovely thedogstarsirius :D

iii.

 

Arthur can’t help it, not really, he _is_ the best at what he does (it’s almost official now, extractors vie for him all the time these days, he can take his pick) so when Eames is shot and hospitalised on a job-gone-wrong, Arthur hears about it almost immediately. Even though he’s on the other side of the world. Even though he’s in the middle of a job with Dom and Mal.

From what he’d heard, Eames had been working with a relatively new team, just a simple job to pass the time between more fun, more profitable jobs. He has no idea what actually went wrong, only that it did, that it was an enormous fuck-up, that this new team is going to be on shaky ground until they can once again prove themselves reliable, that Eames was the only one shot – and it was probably his stupid sense of honour that had caused that; one of the new team members was young, it was his first job, and Arthur knows Eames well enough by now to know he probably took the shot for the kid – and that the wound was damaging enough to have put him completely out of action and in hospital.

He wars with himself. He wants to drop everything and pay Eames a visit, to make sure for himself that he’s all right, to yell at the Point for that team. But he doesn’t want to bail out on the Cobb’s. It’s unprofessional and really, Eames is someone he’s worked with a few times over the years ( _fifteen times_ , his brain reminds him without consulting him first, _fifteen times in three years_ ) so what real reason does he have to go and visit the man?

He supposes he considers Eames a sort of friend; an annoying friend with no shame, no subtlety, horrendous dress sense and a strange set of morals, but still sort of a friend. Being a _sort of_ friend shouldn’t make a difference. He shouldn’t be feeling so distracted, so worried. He certainly shouldn’t feel the need to drop everything and leave.

Apparently though, Mal thinks differently.

After a day of not being able to concentrate, of badly researched information and constantly checking his contacts for updates on Eames’ condition, Mal takes him aside and with a soft expression and sad lilt to her voice she tells him, with all the force an aristocratic French woman can muster, to go and visit his friend.

“We can put the job on hold until your return, Arthur,” she tells him, “It is not so urgent as all that.” She gives him a smile and pats his shoulder, “Besides, Eames could do with a friend by his side, yes?”

Arthur leaves within the hour, taking carry-on luggage only, having bought the first business class ticket that came available and was going in the right direction.

Half a day later, Arthur steps into the hospital room and has to clench his teeth to stop himself reacting.

Eames looks terrible. He wasn’t just shot; he was beaten as well. His eyes are beginning to swell; his face and visible torso are a mass of bruising. He’s covered in bandages and took the shot in the chest, collapsed a lung. He’s also drugged up to the eyeballs and if he was awake, he’d be completely unaware that he has a visitor, let alone who said visitor is.

Arthur puts his bag down beside the only chair and sits, quietly, gaze darting all over as he takes in every injury, grateful that Eames has a private room. It’s wrong seeing Eames like this. Eames is all smiles and charm and lively conversation, flirting and laughing and constant movement. Seeing him so quiet and still, it _hurts._

Arthur isn’t sure what to do with himself.

He sits in complete silence, listening to Eames breath, for a long time.

Over the years, since that disastrous second job they worked together, he and Eames have fallen into a routine. Eames will flirt, as he does, and Arthur will casually shoot him down. It’s comfortable; it’s just something they do. Another facet of the sort-of friendship they share.

As he sits there, watching the gentle rise and fall of Eames’ broad chest, Arthur realises this thing they share is something he doesn’t want to end. He doesn’t know if he wants it to become something _more_ , not yet, but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

Seeing Eames’ the way he is now, it brings it home to Arthur. Life is stupidly fucking fragile, anything can go wrong at any moment, and there’s nothing he can really do about it. He has few friends in his life; he has plenty of acquaintances, plenty of people he works with on more than on occasion, plenty of people he tolerates and people he puts up with for the sake of the work. But friends? He can count them on one hand; Dom, Mal and Eames.

He’s not sure how he’d react if Eames…

Not really thinking about what he’s doing, Arthur reaches out and takes Eames’ limp right hand in his own. He curls his fingers around the unresponsive digits and holds tight.

He’s still sitting like that when the nurse comes in to check the readings and the medication. She smiles at him, and because this is London and a private hospital, she doesn’t bat a lid at the way he’s gripping Eames’ hand.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she tells him with a smile, “He’ll have a couple new scars and he’ll have to do some physio – but really, he’ll be fine. We’ve only put him under to stop him tearing the stitches, making anything worse.”

She signs off on the chart, bids him good night and leaves. Arthur feels infinitely better after her explanation, maybe a little silly for worrying so much. He begins to relax, but doesn’t let go of Eames’ hand.

Arthur stays until the early hours or the morning, when Eames starts waking up, watching over him and feeling like a sentimental fool. The man is still high on morphine, so he’s pretty sure he’ll not remember his being there. He leans over, hesitates briefly and then presses a soft, chaste kiss to Eames’ dry lips.

When Eames opens his eyes and looks up at him, eyes still a little clouded, Arthur smiles, squeezes his hand and whispers, “Welcome back, Mr Eames.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one, guys -- Now BETA'd by the lovely thedogstarsirius :D

iiii.

 

Mal’s dead. She’s dead and Dom has gone on the run, wrongly accused of her murder. The kids have lost their mother and father in one terrible, awful night and Arthur can’t see any way to fix it. For all his intelligence, his contacts, his knowledge – there’s no way he can bring Mal back, and no way he can clear Dom’s charges. He feels useless. Utterly useless.

The fact that he’s lost one of his best friends barely registers. He can’t afford to think about that. Not now – maybe not ever.

He stands at the back of the congregation, eyes on Phillipa and James where they sit with their grandparents, crying wetly and noisily, James not understanding, Phillipa understanding just enough. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so he stays where he is, standing apart and alone.

He doesn’t realise that he’s crying, not until sometime later, when Eames shows up and touches a folded handkerchief to his cheek. He turns into the touch, closes his eyes briefly and then allows himself to look up, into Eames’ own eyes. Eames isn’t smiling, or flirting, or giving him false pity or any of a number of expressions that would make Arthur hate him. He’s simply giving him a look of understanding and before Arthur knows what he’s doing, he’s buried his face into the man’s shoulder.

Strong arms wrap gently around him, a large hand cupping the back of his neck and he allows Eames to lead him somewhere less public.

His fingers tangle in the lapels of the – for once subdued – jacket Eames is wearing and let’s himself cry. Even then, he cries quietly and without fuss. Even in grief, he doesn’t want to cause too much bother, appear too weak; he can’t believe Eames is putting up with him. But put up with him Eames does. The man’s deep voice is sombre, raw with his own grief, as he mumbles nonsense comfort into Arthur’s hair, and Arthur appreciates it, more than he can safely acknowledge, more than he can ever express.

It takes longer than he thought it would, but eventually he cries himself out and he calms down enough to breath properly again. He doesn’t move though, he simply stands with his face pressed into Eames chest, letting the man hold him in silence.

When he kisses Eames, it’s a surprise to the both of them. Eames pulls back, sliding a hand onto Arthur’s cheek, confusion evident in his expression, his eyes; “Love, you don’t-”

Arthur shakes his head, doesn’t say anything, simply leans back in and kisses him again. It might be using what Eames has always been offering, but he needs it right now. He’ll probably regret it later, but right in this moment, it’s something he wants and is willing to actually take for once. And Eames lets him.

The kiss is unhurried, careful, almost chaste, just lips and breath and closed eyes and Arthur almost drowns in it, like he always suspected he would.

Arthur is hyper aware of his body when he finally pulls away; but he doesn’t go far. He presses his forehead to Eames’ and smiles a little shakily, fingers still wrapped in the lapels of Eames’ jacket, Eames large hands at the small of his back.

“I have to go. Have to make sure Dom’s okay.”

Eames nods, “Of course, love,” and chuckles a little. He cuts himself off with a shake of the head, “The man’s probably in a right state. Gotta make sure he doesn’t do something bloody stupid.”

Arthur nods agreement. He’s pretty sure Dom’s close to breaking, leaving him alone for too long could result in Phillipa and James never getting their father back again. Carefully, he extricates himself from Eames, with an apologetic look.

Eames is watching him so closely, so intently, that Arthur pauses. He lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles gently down Eames’ cheek, “I – thank you, Eames.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Eames’ response.


End file.
